


Auguries of Innocence

by Cannabis



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannabis/pseuds/Cannabis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew the man when their eye's met, though a brush of contact that it was. He had once razed that callous behaviour beneath his very own body until it had driven up to meet his own. The provoked scurry was as familiar to him as the barricade slammed down in his face and the marching course as Will Graham left the office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auguries of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radioaction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioaction/gifts).



> TO see a world in a grain of sand,  
> And a heaven in a wild flower,  
> Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,  
> And eternity in an hour.
> 
> For radi0acti0n. Thank you for supporting Hannibal ACCA!

 

 

_**Patroclus.** _

They had met in Pithia, but in the forest of Chiron the centaur king, they had lived. Patroclus and his father had fled here after the accidental murder of a foolish lad. Patroclus felt fear and regret only until they arrived, when Achilles met his eyes, he felt an unexpected comfort within them. No judgement was waved before his nose, for Achilles too understood the justice that already pecked at his skin whenever unfair treatment was disregarded.

 

They hunted stag, sometimes with dogs, but most often they went unaccompanied, as was Achilles preference. Feeling especially adventurous at times, they would hunt lions and boars, however, this they would always do alone, Achilles finding more pleasure in the single hunt, for the lesser of tame beasts. Gleaming with sweat and panting after a capture, they would lay in the grass smiling and praising each other's skills. Patroclus could ne'er disregard how Achilles visage shone, how the light made his gold hair turn almost white in the sun, nor the sporadic tremor that sidled across his skin when the other moved close. A year before Achilles turned fifteen, Patroclus had already begun to understand his interest. If Achilles was interested in return, he did well in hiding it.

 

Only a few days tapped by before a warm memory took place. It was late afternoon and he sat beside Achilles watching every inch of him as he talked. Under the shade of a tree, he listened to Achilles playfully musing about their hunts, a trick he had planned for the other centaurs in the area and his music lesson. Something about how 'blessings, and curses of blessings...' In the midst of his speech Patroclus had kissed his throat, the rough Adam's apple bobbing in surprise, and when he pulled away, he watched the blush creep up to Achilles neck. As much as he enjoyed the voice of Achilles, this he savoured just as well.

 

“I hope you don't mind.” A smirk had edged at his lips, as Achilles now fumbled at his words, promptly quitting the effort, he had inclined his head, pressing a soft kiss of his own to Patroclus's mouth. It was much less of a blunder then the murmurs he had attempted. They pulled close to one another, uncertain and careful at first. Curious hands sidled aimlessly until Achilles pressed Patroclus to the tree and clutched around his waist. He wasn't asking, drumming his fingers up Patroclus's spine to bend against him, pressing kisses wherever their mouths could grasp.

 

If Chiron had made an opinion, he never showed it. Only this time did they arrive late for training, both half erect under their raiment. The penalty, if it could be called that, had merely been an extra demanding routine for the remainder of the evening. Still they had not slacked, aiming harsh blows at each others limbs and torso, laughing and jeering away. Their eventide lesson concluded on the ground, grappling in a most tantalizating manner. Chiron had only chuckled, mellow and wise, then bid them eat and rest for the morrow.

 

They had all settled for the night obediently, fire stoked, and final sighs emitted.

 

Like most of the curious thrive, darkness and confidence spurred Achilles forward. Chiron had promptly fallen asleep, and so Achilles easily slunk to the edge of Patroclus bed, listening to the soft breaths as the other slept. He had given into temptation long before moving over, creeping a hand under the thin sheet that covered Patroclus's body. It was only when Achilles had hold of him by the cock, that he stirred. Out of sight of Chiron, Achilles smirked. The warmth that greeted him was still half rigid. Perhaps his friend had feigned sleep as well, listening intently to the soft pattering of feet edging close to his side. He listened to the tender, halted mewl of his, finding himself swelteringly hot at the sound that was barely audible above the wind creaking through the trees. There was no mistaking the whispered ' _ Achilles _ ' as cum danced into his palm, or the arch of his back as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of Patroclus's neck.

 

Settling back under the covers of his own bed, he raised the hand to his face, gathering the scent of Patroclus into every inch of his being, tasting him eternally.

 

It was a memory that would always remain within the stirrings of his mind.

 

At fifteen Achilles had married and become a General of the Myrmidons, one of the people's of Pithia. A bountiful feast was prepared in his honour, and though he was filled with energy to revel with the others, his eyes drifted often into the depths of Patroclus, searching his soft gaze. He sought to be alone with his friend, a well earned gift awaiting his promotion, but instead, he remained a few seats away drink in hand, due to the new bride, and he could feel Patroclus's eyes on him throughout the evening. It was a comforting whisper across his skin, as his friend enjoyed the view, knowing full well that Achilles could not acknowledge him until later.

 

His bride satiated and sleeping, Achilles left her in gentle sleep to walk the balcony. He sensed before he saw, the moon skinned comrade sitting on the leftmost edge; out of view of the room. He stepped close, resting his palms against the cool stone.

 

“We are sailing from Sycros in the morning.” If there was an easier way to break away, this was it. To take only what he needed, far from this place. “Leaving everything behind to start again.”

 

“I'm going with you.” Not even a hint of hesitation roused in his comrade's eyes. Their friendship was foremost in his mind, forged through blood and battle. A life long gift that would not even cease during their last breath.

 

It was not for his friend, that Achilles had grown into silence and more distant as they had travelled the land and sea. Having dealt with the loss of his new sweetheart to the savagely, greedy king Agamemnon, he had drifted into darker moods then ever, his aphotic eyes only loosening with the weight and heat of Patroclus's body, searching fingers, and fervent tongue. Nevertheless, pressing close in their gasps of energy, did Achilles feel enclosed once more.

 

Patroclus could find no words to convince Achilles from within himself. Knowing the burden his friend carried, he could only scrap away at with dull fingernails. He longed for the familiar peace of mind, but pushed away his selfishness as he nestled into the soft, blonde hair that had grown long and heavy over Achilles neck.

 

“I would do anything to save you from the dungeon you have confined around your spirit.” He whispered against Achilles's chest. There was no response, as Achilles leaned his lips against the top of his head. Tasting the words that pounded inside his skull. His memories. His wants and fears. Then he whispered, almost unheard.

 

“I know.”

 

It wasn't until the ensuing battle drew closer and Patroclus met Eurypylus stumbling back into the camp, an arrow driven deep into his thigh that he knew he must convince Achilles to act. To move ahead, even if he were to stumble. After seeing to his wound and hearing the words that overwhelmed the spirit of the man before him, did Patroclus gain the meaning that could turn the tide that warped the interior of Achilles soul.

 

“Achilles.” He entered the tent, regarding the General an elbow against a map on the table, brooding and empty eyed. He turned to his friends voice, the light far removed from his gaze but the quizzical look raising the edge away, weakly.

 

“Patroclus.” Achilles replied simply, the word blank, unlike that night they had shared what felt like months before. With a quick stride, he closed the distance between them and kissed him, tenderly with harried cause and expression. A hand fumbled into the soft locks, holding Patroclus to his mouth. A tear drifted down his cheek as he broke the touch, Achilles watched it with a bewildered expression, searching his immediate gaze, tongue traversing the map of lust that had lead his mouth a moment before.

 

“You must heed me.” Patroclus spoke, knowing that he had grounded Achilles to his words.”The danger is drawing too close, and far too many have died. Let me take up your armour and shake off the enemy before they destroy us.” Achilles stared forward at his friend. Eyes back and forth, and for a moment, he seemed to drift toward his dim mood once more. Patroclus shook him gently. “ _Achilles_.” He spoke firm now, resolute. Achilles hand raised to his, tracing the knuckles and veins before settling on his wrist.

 

“Do it then, though first you must make me a promise.” He leaned forward to press his lips against the forehead of his friend.

 

“Anything.” Patroclus whispered, closing his eyes at the contact. A whisper of that familiar night, when warmth and harmony had not been lost to duress. Achilles paused, as if in thought a moment before leaning back to regard his eyes, his voice rose evenly.

 

“Destroy them. Route them off our ships. But do not give chase.” With a final glance, an unspoken word passed between them.

 

“ _Come back to me.”_

 

 

_**Hannibal.** _

He knew the man when their eye's met, though a brush of contact that it was. He had once razed that callous behaviour beneath his very own body until it had driven up to meet his own. The provoked scurry was as familiar to him as the barricade slammed down in his face and the marching course as Will Graham left the office.

 

Hannibal had taken a sip from his mug to hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

 

For every conversation that slipped between them, his certainty grew. The sarcastic jests, the portent motion that he soon could readily predict. Not even a year passed and he was convinced of the truth buried in the depths of Will's ravaged soul.

 

After returning from the _Baltimore State Hospital_ , Will had morphed into an almost different person. At least to himself, surely. A desperate adversary turned archaic friend. Hannibal recognized the jaunting palaver in his character, the difference in stance as Will curled around behind his chair as he sketched. Catching Will's eye he wondered, as Will had become so astute at hiding his more tender emotions behind a contemplative exterior, if the light there was recognition, or only his reaction whilst taking in Hannibal's elegant croquis. He wondered what parts of him that Will had collected, and if he could ascertain it before the end. His sense of self growing ever closer to what Hannibal could only hope for. Unspoken words passed between them, as their gazes flitted purposely over one another. When Will turned his gaze away, Hannibal followed it, and as they stared into the fire, he remembered his friend's death.

 

 

_**Patroclus.** _

Brown and red merged as he slit open the belly of another Trojan and watched him sputter to the ground, holding the remains of his intestine inside his belly. How many had he killed? He knew the number, every death a mark in his memory. His fidelity was bound to _him_ , and no other. Loyalty had made him don the armour of his friend, and to dismiss himself from Achilles command to hunt the remaining Trojans to their demise. Achilles, with his undeniable beauty in light and darkness. A kinship that mortals could only dream of. He did not want his General to die here, but as for Patroclus, he did not fear death if it was to save the life of a friend.

 

The chariot he had stolen rattled beneath his feet as another foe tumbled against the spoke, and when he turned to spear the bosom of the next adversary, a hard strike thudded against his helmet, knocking it from his head. The blow was severe enough to knock him off balance and he tumbled from the chariot, though righting himself quickly, he drew his sword. The fall had shaken loose the corslet ties and damaged the bronze pins on the rocks, his wayward gift from and for Achilles. Before he could sheathe his weapon and adjust the strapping, a blade sang at his right, and he spun away, regaining his footing. He heard the distinct sound of a sword coming to a halt to split the dirt where he had fallen. He flinched and looked down. Naer had he been quick enough, and the tendons in his arm were split open, bleeding heavily into the grainy sea around him. As his sword dropped from his limp grasp, another voice leered out from behind him. Patroclus grunted only slightly as the short spear sunk into his back between his shoulders, nearly spearing the only organ that he had sworn to protect for another. He stumbled forward, and dropped to one knee as the spear withdrew. Then he understood, the gods had chosen this. It was the only way Achilles would realize...

 

“I am foremost of all the Trojan warriors to stave the day of bondage from off them; as for you, vultures shall devour you here.” None other then the warrior prince Hector could arrive at such a timely matter, or speak in such boastful accord. Patroclus strained to see the sky, but his body had given way to the ground supported by his knees, his vision blurred and his thoughts to move even an inch were ignored. With a scattered voice, the iron water rising like a funnel in his chest he spoke one last time.

 

“... death and the day of your doom are close upon you...” Hector's spear drove through his chest, and he passed immediately from his temple like a mist free from the grasp of the earth. They stripped him of Achilles armour, in self-aggrandizing words thought they victorious, and left his body to rot in the sun. He had already slipped away into the stream, suffering no more at the gentle touch of his end. No more were they able to desecrate his body, as Ajax and Odysseus protected him until they had withdrawn from Troy's battlefield.

 

 

_**Will.** _

“I would like to hear it, Will.” His hand had come to rest at Will's chin, as they lay in Hannibal's bed. Sweat glistened his partner's skin, and damp curls drifted low across his tired brow.

 

“What story this time?” Will leaned down to stroke his lips across Hannibal's thumb, watching his eyes. They darken with amusement.

 

“When you died. I want to hear it from your mouth.” He leaned up and over Will, the sheet draping loosely from his waist.

 

Will knew the pain of remembered loss was evident in his features as Hannibal brushed his fingers across his cheek, through his hair. Studying him.

 

“They....Menelaus and Meriones brought me back to you, while Ajax and Odysseus had protected me from further violation. I was...torn up, and broken. You didn't want to believe them, but you knew.” He watched Hannibal swallow as he listened, content to watch Will's lips move in return for his manner. “You had no reason to live anymore, except to stamp out the one who murdered me, without mercy.” A spark had flickered in his partner's eye but before it could be acknowledged, Hannibal had begun to edge down the smooth skin of Will's chest and stomach. Will groaned against the soft trail of kisses, and as Hannibal paused, a hair's breadth from his navel, he spoke.

 

“Continue.” He voice vibrated against his skin, low and smooth, his hands traversed the breadth of Will's thighs. Will emitted a muffled whimper, arching into the pleasant touch, feeling the soft hair of his bedmate's chest sweep his erection before closing his eyes to the present view.

 

The battle was as vivid as the present, he attempted to rewind to the time before, but Hannibal's warm tongue was distracting him, the hand pressing gently against his inner thigh forcing him to remain in this euphoric instance. With a swift roll of his wrist, Hannibal lifted Will's legs onto his own shoulders, Will's resting weight against his knees. Will knew as soon as the tongue circled his hole, the hot breath caressed the gentle pressure rising him and the arms securely tied around his waist that Hannibal was not going to ease away.

 

Hannibal's erection was pressing at Will's shoulder blades, and when he went taut at the tongue tracing his hole, he could feel Hannibal arching slightly between his tensing muscles, teasing himself between his bones and vertebrae beneath his skin. He cried out, as Hannibal's tongue entered him, irritatingly ruttish and warm, sending a pulse to his already pulsing cock. Clenching the sheets with both hands, and quivering desperately he searched again for the answer that Hannibal had asked for. Watching time trace the corners of his memory and dance across his eyelids.

 

 

_**Achilles.** _

He had always inwardly boasted there was never a chance he would give away his most loyal friend so easily, but here he learned, _so easily_ he had. First, he was racked with his rage, but he did not yell, though he felt like his lungs would explode, the churning in his guts only ceasing as he fell against the cold shoulder of his friend, lost forever to him. They had washed and cleaned him already, but Achilles felt like that would never be enough. Nothing ever was. His tears dried stains on the drapery over Patroclus, and left a trail down the lean muscle of the arm that would never move again. Everything had ended when they had pierced the blade of sorrow through every fibre of his being. After what felt like hours Achilles finally grew silent, empty of tears, joy, hunger, happiness. Only a the chill of death remained. A rustle behind him catching his attention to light.

 

“Achilles.” It was the voice of Thetis, his mother. He had no wish to speak, but lifted his eyes, red and empty to her visage. A fresh rage began to ascend within him.

 

“Even with the gods on my side, how can I be satisfied when my only true friend is dead?” Lying before him, silent, he had no wish but to hear his voice...to feel his warm touch race the blood in his veins. He wished to track every drop that had fallen from the breast of his friend on the battlefield. His mother remained silent, a god that she was, certainly she thought she could understand the pain of his loss. But after a thousand losses, wouldn't one, especially a god, begin to grow numb? “Leave me. Leave me to my decisions.” She did not move, and he turned his gaze away, once more falling upon the lifeless face of his friend. The sweltering rage, was shaking inside him and scattering his breath as he clenched a hand around Patroclus's cold fingers. “I have no wish to live unless Hector falls into my spear and dies.” When no reply came, he hesitated to turn, then looked to see Thetis had gone. His fate had been accepted, as bitter as it may be.

 

A chaffing wind whipped at his skin but he paid it no mind. He had ceased shaking the dirt from his hair ages ago. The swirling sands washed away the march of the Myrmidons, only hours afore they fought along these beaches, now gone and mixed their own iron with the grit of earth. He walked along beside his chariot, ached at every inch, having scaled the roads long enough for the muscles in his legs to burn hot, for the trembling to reach his shoulders at the weight of the armour strapped round his torso. The new shield attached to his arm. Both gifts from Thetis on his departure. But it wasn't _his_ armour. No, his armour had been sliced to pieces, beaten and broken asunder. What remained of it lay behind him, awaiting his return, draped in silk blankets. Hector would be felled.

 

Sweat traced the line of his back and dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. He swiped only once, to alleviate the sting and bit down on his lip. He cursed the armour, the Trojans, he cursed the gods, but nothing could drive out the arrow stuck deep inside his heart, as he cursed himself, most of all. He could no longer mourn the passing of a thing, but the wavering breath that had been contained inside, now hollowed out the peace that he had once gathered inside. The only thing that could fill that void was the death of the one who had gifted him this silence, evermore, into every life that he would ever live.

 

The coward warrior prince had fled on sight of him, knowing his doom had come the chase had circled three times round the city of Troy before Hector had turned to face him. He must have smelled the hate in the blood and viscera that coated Achilles body and chariot. The spear Achilles threw sailed with a righteous fury at the prince, Hector dodged and he prepared for Hector's returning spear, but as Hector drew back to release his own, Achilles felt the lance once more in his hand, the grace of the god Athena, earning him a victory. As the foe's spear bounced heedlessly from his shield, the ripple gave strength to his steps. Hector drew his sword, his only weapon now and they clashed, sparks scattered across the ground and stung their skin. They twisted, and roared at one another, the sand around them muddled with sweat, footprints and blood from the near misses they had caused. Hector spun at his next hit, Achilles as well, but he was fast, faster then anyone. Thetis had made sure of it, giving him the wings of Arce when he had not even begun to walk. At his triumph, he howled, ripping through the stomach of the one who had stolen the spirit from the body he had cherished as one. The prince gasped as he was flung over Achilles shoulder and onto the ground. His pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

 

“The dogs and vultures will devour you. _”_ Achilles spat out, his dry lips accepting in gulps of air as his foe twitched on the ground beneath him. Blood pooled in his armour, and though his hands grasped, he knew he was to expire.

 

“Your death will soon follow, Achilles.” Hector rasped as he faded into death. Not long after his final rattle, Achilles unsheathed a dagger from his belt, sliced into Hector's heels and girdled him to the chariot. Death was not what something he would ever fear.

 

He galloped around Troy dragging the broken lump of meat, toward and through the Scaean Gate feeling a clarity in his soul as he slew his way forward, the viscera spraying free from any who willingly centred themselves into his path. The screams were a vapid echo. He could hear the cheers and howls over all of the fellow Myrmidons at his back. Their moral had risen to a deathly roar, chasing the Trojan's into a panicking wave through their blades now, the cries ringing on the metal that skewered them.

 

When they returned, all were united in celebration. All but Achilles. His energy spent, and spirit drenched in lethargy, he fell into Patroclus's tent, content to be alone. Alone forever with the body of his deceased.

 

He dreamed of pain and agony every night, tossing and turning to shake free the images of his friend. He wasn't certain how many days it had been since his passing, but he refused to let him go again, the shadows chasing him relentlessly in his dreams. He woke with a start, his tunic drenched in sweat, and stumbled over to a decanter of wine, uncorked it and took three large swallows. He needed to rest, somehow. He fell against the side of his bed, the wood frame dug into his back, but he didn't care. Without thinking, he took another drink from the decanter, and before he considered it, another, until he had finally drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 

“Achilles.”

 

He knew that voice. But it couldn't be possible. When he opened his eyes, he began to softly weep.

 

“ Patroclus-” There was so much he wanted to say. To curse him for disobeying, to curse him for leaving him behind. The hate he felt held him to the ground, as he was wrecked with silent sobs. A warm hand stroked his cheek, wiping away the tears that drained from his very spirit.

 

“I must ask one more thing of you, though I disregarded your final word.”

 

“Anything.” Achilles swallowed, grasping the hand that cradled his jaw. He never wanted him to go, never again.

 

“I cannot pass on unless you burn my body.”

 

“I won't-”

 

“You must.” Patroclus crouched, pressing both hands firmly but gently around Achilles's face. The warmth was as real then as it had ever been. “If the loyalty we shared will stretch for eternity, you must let my remains go so we can meet again.” Achilles thoughts quivered, he was desperate to deny him the passing, to seek another way to free him, but he knew all this was for naught. As his mind collected, he watched the look on Patroclus's face dim into a comforting smile.

 

“I will see you again.” He said quietly, his voice an assurance guiding from the depths of despair. His shaking had subsided, fading into silence. There was no reason that Patroclus would lie, never to him.

 

“You will.”

 

Achilles woke. The empty decanter cradled in his arms, the blank feeling amiss within his spirit as he rose. He walked over and replaced the bottle on the table. He stood silent a moment, before spotting a dagger and his mirror. It had been a long time since he had properly shaved. He picked up the blade and held it to his chin, hesitant. Instead, he choose to trim the heavy locks back from his face, returning him to a style of his youth, and his years with Patroclus.

 

The funeral was long, and even those who had barely known Patroclus wept fervently. Achilles was grateful for every tear that washed the soil at their feet. He called for a golden urn as he chose the best of his horses, dogs and other animals to sacrifice for Patroclus. He wavered not when choosing twelve additional Trojan prisoners to cast into the flames, their melting fat sticking heavily to his lips as they screamed while the roasted. As they raised up Patroclus's body to the pyre, Achilles found himself again on the verge of lachrymose. This time though, it was a pleasant release, knowing that this flesh, this lifeless temple was freeing his comrade and true friend to the afterlife. With the greatest respect, he gathered Patroclus's ashes and placed them within two layers of preserve inside the golden urn of his choosing. Even if that was all that remained, he would always be remembered in the heart of Achilles.

 

After the funeral, he gathered his men together for a competition, to respect his friendship and honour the passing of a great warrior. Soon the pain of loss was drowned out in the hope and joy of victorious celebration. This time, Achilles too found himself joining in the enrapturing jubilation.

 

Not long after, as he passed through the Scaean Gate once more, he saw a silvery mist wavering near his side, and for a moment he mistook it for a irregular twist of sand. He had not been prepared for the whispering sound that pierced his heel only a second later, the shape of a man gathering within that murk.

 

No, the shape of a jealous _god_.

 

He toppled in the chariot, grasping at the reigns but unable to regain strength they slid from his grasp. He didn't feel the fall as he tipped against the side, easing off onto the hot sand. He could only imagine Hector scattering bits of himself on the ground beside him as he was dragged by in the storage of his mind.

 

He gasped, staring up past the sun through the summer sky, blue and clear amidst the whirling soil that grazed his hot skin and lashes, a breach opening before him as his lids drifted closed, the hot air going cold, and rushing around him like a furious storm at sea, the whistling and roaring almost deafening as he reached forward. He needed to grasp anything, something so as not to slip completely away.

 

 

_**Hannibal.** _

As they were burning his records, a familiar scent spiralled him inward, and he traced his thoughts on the time Will had leaned into his touch, desperately in need of another's tender care. He had reciprocated. Kneading into each other by the heat of the living room fire, Will had groaned “I remember...” but his voice had trailed away in the expanse of lust as Hannibal's tongue trailed around his cock. Hannibal had mused to speak of it after, but Will had fallen into a restful sleep, holding fast beneath his chin, soft breaths warming his neck. He had wished, almost desperately, that it couldn't possibly be different then what he had imagined. Too dangerously.

 

At dinner, Will had been as passive as before, just the same, and it was then Hannibal knew he had been given away. The armour that Achilles had offered his loyalty, put aside. Captivated in his own destruction, he realized it would be he that would end his partner's unfathomable peace. Every trap was rewritable once he caught on. Their ashes were not to be mixed in the golden urn, encompassed forever in time.

 

When the phone rang, he had not wavered from his usual state even as he saw the number glaring up at him. He answered, pressing it lightly to his ear.

 

“They know.” It was Will's, no one else's choosing, to give him that final link of defence. To try and save him from a horrible plight. But Hannibal did not fear death, and asking him to run was the most improper way to send him along. Alone, with so many questions and answers that had not yet been shared.

 

A part of him had died then with his friend, his parting thought of Patroclus, the last thick feeling trickling across the bridge of nose. On what he had hoped Will Graham would return to, dashed to the floor amongst splinters of cabinet and blood. One soul, wrenched apart at the seams.

 


End file.
